


Worthy is the Lamb

by ClementineStarling



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen struggles against the enchantment placed upon him, only to find out that sometimes ignorance is bliss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worthy is the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly my knowledge of the english language is not sufficient for trying a pastiche, or I simply lack the mimetic skills neccessary. :( However, this is only a slice of darkness I needed to get out of my head before the start of the BBC adaption. (I'm really afraid that it will overrule all my own imagination, so, last chances etc.)  
> I kept the fic at 1000 words, because it's such a nice number, even though I initially wanted to write something about this paragraph: 
> 
>   _"Suddenly in his fancy he saw a dark place – a terrible place – a place full of horror – a hot, rank, closed-in place. There were shadows in the darkness and the slither and clank of heavy iron chains. What this image meant or where it had come from he had not the least idea. He did not think it could be a memory. Surely he had never been in such a place?"_
> 
> But perhaps another muse will kiss, inspiration strike or plot bunny bite.  
> In the meantime, why don't you feel prompted, dearest reader?!!

Another evening was drawing to a close, Stephen felt it with the utmost certainty, a sensation that to him had become as rare as weeks in which two Mondays came together. He guessed it not only by the ache of tiredness that trembled in his bones, but also by the way some of the enchantment's weight was lifted from his mind like heavy curtains drawn aside, only the tiniest bit, yet enough for him to catch a glimpse of his old self through the gap. It appeared as if with the dark on the wane, the magic was fading too and – just like the night – the fabric of the spell wore thin and threadbare, almost transparent. Dawn had begun to whisper in the trees, Stephen could well hear its promise as he gazed out the window into the ghastly forest, into this unnatural thicket that he had once believed to be nothing but a silly notion sprung from fantasy, yet which had turned out to be unfortunately real. Even now on the cusp of day it still held them within its grasp, its tangled branches so much like the inextricable web of sanity and madness, waking and dream he had found himself caught in, he scarcely could bear the sight. But somewhere behind the impenetrable gloom there surely must be the first glimmer of pallor upon the starry sky, for he sensed his wits unfolding like jack-knife, keen as ever, ready to cut through any kind of befuddlement. 

It was only ever then, upon the threshold of dawn, in that all-too short hour of twilight that he regained some sense of clarity. The nights were too thick, the light of the tallow candles too sparse to see, their glow barely more than a brief, ghostly interruption of the dominion of darkness, just like reason sometimes flickered through the madness of this spell. And the garish light of day on the other hand was blinding, sentencing him to a clock-work stupor of mere functionality, shackling him to the ever same ritual of duties and tasks, condemning him to a half-life that knew neither pleasure nor joy. An existence without taste or flavour, a fate that occasionally appeared even more unreal than his nightly visits to Faerie.

Stephen turned around. And he saw. And he remembered. Everything that day and night his mind failed to stitch together, now lined up like pearls on a thread, a chain of events that made him feel faint. He felt the weight of dread and the horror of slipping consciousness, but then a glance met him, stormy eye, a caress of steel, a vile fondness, and he was quick to restore his usual façade of accomplished courtesy. 

He returned the smile of the gentleman with the thistle-down hair in the most cordial manner he could possibly achieve under the circumstance. Fortunately the pretence did not have to last, for the gentleman was only passing by; he and the Lady Pole were the last couple dancing. Everyone else had retired, all the fine ladies in their gowns spun from nightmares and summer dreams and their tiaras wrought of joy and sorrow, and gentlemen clothed in autumn fog and flaunting hair the colour of forget-me-not and marigold, iris, poppy and daffodil, but the master of these shadowy halls and her ladyship were still whirling about and about, never tiring, until Stephen felt dizzy from watching alone and the gentleman shone like moonbeams (not unlike that time when Stephen had brushed his skin) and the Lady Pole was flushed like the morning sky.

They were undoubtedly beautiful together, Stephen thought, and he also thought of that moment in front of the mirror, when the gentleman and he had marvelled at their complimentary handsomeness, and the oddest sentiment struck him; it felt like a twinge of jealousy, followed by a realization shimmering slowly through the still thick layer of enchantment placed upon him: what if, God forbid, the gentleman turned out to be no gentleman at all, despite of appearance? This was Faerie, was it not? A land of near-lawlessness where its inhabitants did as they pleased, regardless of rules and manners and common decency.

Again there rose a flutter of panic in his stomach before Stephen razor-sharp mind had dissected the thought into its very ingredients, divided foreboding from memory and fear from fact, and he calmed himself. He found that everything had been settled, even though the knowledge lay buried deep in the drawers of his consciousness, neatly stowed away so no one would happen upon it by mistake. Stephen took it very carefully out of its proper place and looked at it in a fashion of terrified tranquility. It contained a queer tingling sensation that crawled over and beneath Stephen's skin. As he contemplated its source, he remembered that had been produced by a caress of icy white fingers. A touch of his temple and cheek, a touch of his lips. “How beautiful you are, Stephen”, would the gentleman croon, night after night, he could see it quite clearly now before his inner eye, the forms the fairie's affection took, twisted like the dancer's shadows upon the walls and the branches of the trees in the tangled wood. And by God did he wish he could un-see it! Banish the feel of hair soft as thistle-down and stinging as nettles. Forget about the silvery mist of breath on his body and the edge of too sharp teeth against his flesh and the rake of ragged fingernails over his skin.

The only part of these memories that would convey him some comfort was the whisper that run through them like the babble of a brook and the murmur of the breeze rustling in dead leaves, an unlikely promise of fidelity: “Fear not, Stephen, even the admiration I have for the Lady Pole pales against the love that I bear you. I shall not bestow my favours upon any one else as long as you shall grant me yours.”


End file.
